When Your Back's Against the Wall
by DistantDreamer4
Summary: You couldn't protest if you wanted to. And that's saying you actually do. Want to.


Title: When Your Back's Against the Wall

Words: 1,925  
Rating: M  
Pairing: Meredith/Derek  
Spoiler: Not particularly spoilery, but we'll say it falls sometime after _From a Whisper to a Scream_.  
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I just borrowed them.

Summary: You can't protest if you wanted to. And that's saying you actually do. Want to.

* * *

It's one of those fights that starts out for a specific reason, one person's anger igniting the other's. And then it snowballs, as issues that normally wouldn't matter nearly as much get brought up, only adding fuel to a fire already burning too hot. Before you know it, you're screaming about stupid little things like who forgot to take out the garbage and snoring.

You're so angry you can't even think straight anymore, can't even remember what started all this in the first place. You just know it's _his_ fault, and _God_, he's an ass.

Which you promptly tell him, hissing the word and watching as his eyes, already dark from anger, flash to black.

"Fuck this," you say, tired of standing there staring him down. You turn to leave the room.

In an instant, though, he's closed the space between the two of you, grabbing your arm and spinning your body back around to face him. It all happens so fast, that it's a shock to your system to feel your back hit the wall seconds later. By the time you realize the position you are now in, his mouth is crushed against yours and his hands are on your hips, holding you tightly in place as though you aren't already pinned there. You couldn't protest if you wanted to. And that's saying you actually do. Want to.

Which, you don't, really. You know it and he knows it, and so the growling sound you make as he presses you harder against the wall? Just frustration at the fact that he has this effect on you. Every _single_ time. Even if you're completely pissed off at him.

That thought only makes you angrier and you place your hands on his chest, poising to shove him away when he suddenly tears his mouth from yours and presses it against your neck. His hands leave your hips, one roughly cupping your breast through the thin material of your shirt and the flimsy lace of your bra, the other tangling in your hair as he tips your head to the side to allow himself better access to your neck.

You don't really care that he's probably going to leave a mark. _Marks._

You _do_ care he's wearing a shirt - two shirts, actually - and your fingers move for the hem of his sweater, tugging upward on it and making him disengage himself from you long enough to get it pulled up over his head. You toss it aside and he's back on you again, both hands on your face to hold you still as he attacks your lips with his own. His kisses are as angry as his eyes were, and though you can feel the tender skin bruising beneath them, you're not paying much attention to that.

Because there's still the matter of getting his other shirt off and the buttons are hard to work your frantic fingers around when you can't see them, _and_ the whole process is taking a lot longer than you'd like, leaving you frustrated and two seconds away from ripping your way down the rest of the shirt. But you finally slip the last button out of its hole and his shirt flaps open.

He groans as you rake your nails over his hot skin, kissing you even harder in retaliation before dropping his hands from your face to pull his shirt off the rest of the way and then grabbing yours and adding it to the quickly growing pile on the floor. He doesn't stop there, though, moving his kisses down your neck and across your chest as he deftly flicks open the clasp of your bra and attacks the fly of your jeans. His stubble scrapes your skin, leaving you feeling like the path his mouth just took is on fire.

Although, that's kind of how your whole body feels at this point.

You're both breathing heavily; the anger coursing through your veins is now coupled with anticipation and desire. You know where this is going. You knew exactly where it was going once your back was against the wall.

You also know this has nothing to do with making up.

He pushes your jeans down over your hips and then they fall easily to the floor. Your panties follow. You reach for his zipper and he swats your hand away, pressing his body against yours as two fingers slip between your wet folds and twist inside you.

Of course. This is how it works, you know this too. He makes you come first and he wins. And somehow you can't quite find fault with the arrangement.

You start to think you might - find fault, that is - but then he's kissing you and his mouth is hot against your skin and his fingers are busy stroking you from the inside; he's added another plus his thumb is working the bundle of nerves on the outside. You eventually forget everything but the fact you're close to coming. That you're coming. _That you came._

You forget your anger.

But you'll remember. You'll remember, and after your body stops trembling, you'll again reach for his pants, this time ready to swat _his_ hand away should he try to stop you.

He doesn't try to though, in fact, he's waiting for this. He knows you give as good as you get, and angry or not, he's still a man. A man who has been, for the most part, in a perpetual state of arousal since he met you.

You meet his gaze briefly before dropping your own to his zipper and sliding it down as you ignore the way your stomach just tightened in response to the stormy look in his eyes. It doesn't matter that he just made you come. The feeling of satiation was fleeting - momentary - and has already disappeared.

Your hands grasp at his waist, thumbs hooking into belt loops as you tug the fabric roughly down over his boxers and send it to pool around his ankles. Stepping out of your own jeans and kicking them aside, this time you press your body against his, not bothering to remove the one thin layer of material left separating your bodies.

The heat of his breath dances across your face and you will yourself not to look up at him. Not yet. Instead you focus your attention on the insistent way his arousal is pressing against your thigh, slipping your hand between the two to brush _lightly_ across it; knowing quite well that is not how he wants it. At all.

Which is exactly how you get your vengeance.

You can tell he's struggling by the way his breath keeps hitching in his throat, but you don't care. You're in control, you're winning...

And then you're not.

Because suddenly he makes a noise so feral that you do look up and he takes advantage of that, swiftly dipping his head and closing his mouth down over yours as the hands now flexing on your waist simultaneously start backing you up against the wall. Again.

Your own hands are tearing blindly at his boxers, as desperate to have them off of him as he is. As soon as you feel them slip from your fingers, he pulls you closer and lets his hands drop to roughly cup your ass. He is lifting you now, biting at your lips and bringing you into the air as your back touches the wall, forcing you to wrap your legs around him.

He shifts you in his arms and then thrusts inside of you at once, not taking any time to let you adjust before pulling almost completely out and doing it again. There's nothing gentle about this, each thrust slams you against the wall, forcing the air out of your body and barely giving you time to catch your next breath. It's shocking and incredible at the same time, and you cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, his back, leaving blood red marks and a stinging pain that are only encouraging him to fuck you harder.

You shouldn't look into his eyes because when you do, all hope of catching the breath you're already fighting so hard for is lost. The intensity there is astounding, and you can't look away once you've seen it. Because right now? He's making you his again, reminding you of all the reasons you could never leave him no matter how angry you think you are, and you both know it.

Eventually your eyes slip shut, no longer physically able to stay open as your body draws near its release. Your breath quickens even more as that familiar sensation starts to prickle inside you - though tenfold in its usual size and momentum - and your muscles begin to tense as it continues to build. His mouth finds your nipple and you tighten your legs around his waist, your voice hinging on desperation as you gasp his name.

His name. With that one word, you are saying so many things and he hears them all.

He knows what you want.

Groaning, his attention moves from your breast to your mouth, forcing his tongue inside to stroke and twist frantically against your own as he drives into you with a pace slipping further and further away from being anywhere near rhythmic. He's losing control, _you're_ losing control. A battle of wills you've already proven you can't win, and _won't_ win, not when he's moving inside you like this and kissing you like that.

Still, losing never felt so good.

It lingers there, just beyond the edge of your soul, waiting to wash over you and sweep you away. And you want it to, want _him_ to, your every action now begging him to finish what you both started. Your back arches, crushing your breasts into his chest, hands clawing at his shoulders as though there is actually a chance he could slip from your grasp.

That he'd let you slip away.

One final thrust and you're both tumbling down over that precipice, giving way to your passion and collapsing against one another, temporarily forgetting the circumstances that brought you here, realizing nothing in this moment but how it feels to have him inside you, to have his body pressed against yours, the smell of him intoxicating you as you breathe with your face tucked against his neck. And for that moment, everything is right, calm and quiet. It's just you and him.

But then you're starting to remember and so is he, and before long he's setting you down. Your feet touch the floor and he backs away from you, staying close enough to make sure you're steady but not close enough to touch. His eyes briefly meet yours and they're still dark, but now there is a certain smug satisfaction in his expression.

_You're mine_, it says. Then he kind of nods in an affirmation to himself and turns away, not bothering to pick up his clothes before walking out.

"Ass," you mutter again furiously at the empty doorway as you bend to gather your clothes. Damn him for doing this to you again. Damn _you_ for letting him. _Damn --_

You lean back against the wall. _Damn_, that was good.

You're still angry. Angrier, even. But a tiny part of you - the one you're trying to hard to push away, to ignore - is already thinking about later. Because later?

Later there will be, without a doubt, makeup sex.

_Damn._


End file.
